


Red Cheeks, White Bars, and Blue Tights

by MaelstromScythian



Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: I'll Update As I Go, I'm reviving this, M/M, Mentions of Rape, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaelstromScythian/pseuds/MaelstromScythian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of them are champion gymnasts training for future world competitions.<br/>Two of them moved from their old gyms to begin training at the third.<br/>A different pair have already placed in the Olympics.<br/>One of them still has to make a name for himself.<br/>The question is, how will he do it?<br/>Set in 2009, a year after both placed the Olympics and in an alternate universe where Sasha can still compete and Jonathan doesn't have issues with his left shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Anger, White Grips, Blue Floor

     In retrospect, this was probably a  _bad_ idea.

     He had been training at his small-town branch in southwestern Pennsylvania; that was okay, but for some odd reason, when a letter came in the mail requesting that he transfer to his hometown for higher-level training, he stupidly accepted the offer.

     It wasn't like they would remember him from age seven, right?

     He remembered the joy he took in going once a week to that academy, but that was before he moved away and actually trained to compete. At age sixteen, he had been competing for three years, and had  _finally_ reached Level Ten- on floor exercising, anyway.

     When he was there, he remembered Jon Horton- young, athletic, in his prime, full of energy. By now, he was older, and yet all of those features remained- he gave everything his all, no matter what he did. It didn't matter that Michael may have had the hots for him before he even  _knew_ what the hots were; what mattered now was that Cypress Academy had three gymnasts that were capable of going to the Olympics, with three years left to train. 

     Of course, he'd gotten over his crush a long time ago. Nowadays, he was practically asexual- he didn't swing towards girls, and no men interested him either. He was rather eccentric- from the way he dressed to the way he spoke. Often, he reverted to the German he'd learned as a child, which struck out as a huge advantage when people got onto his bad side. 

     For now, it was time to see how the place had changed since he'd been there last. Black Vibrams clacked upon the pavement in front of the gym, long legs aching from driving the nineteen hours he'd taken to drive to the place. Having just recently gotten his driver's license, this was no small feat for the slender figure that took a deep breath, lycra-clad hands reaching out to touch the door handle before gripping it firmly, nearly yanking open the door in the process. 

     He almost paid for that in bruises when he heard the scuffing of feet behind him. Whipping around, he discovered a short blonde man standing just short of the the door, face heating up in near-anger. "Oh- sorry! I didn't see you there. Here, come in," he apologized, holding the door open and praying that he wouldn't be killed. The man's face was still slightly pointed downward, but he thought he recognized it from somewhere before...

     "You'd do well to look next time, then." With nothing but an acknowledging grunt, he walked into the gym, the totem bag hidden from Michael's view coming into his peripheral as he nearly strutted past him. A part of him was screaming for him not to let the man get away with such insolence, but something stayed his hand, a recognition of some kind of kinship they may have had together preventing any malevolent action. Shaking his head, he stepped inside of the gym, the familiar odor of chalk and dry foam permeating his nostrils once again. Walking towards the main office, he found the same man waiting there, behind someone who looked astonishingly familiar as well...

     It hit him.

     One of them was Jonathan Horton- the body structure and practice outfit were easy to recognize- but the other was a gymnast he remembered idolizing back in sixth grade.

     Sasha Artemev had received the same letter as he had, and he would be training with these two for what could possibly be the rest of his career as a gymnast.

     Astonished, he could only gape in surprise as the two headed into the back rooms, the satin overcoat he'd chosen to wear finally coming to rest at the backs of his legs. He had to focus, but the thought of training with such successes was so  _slim._ He would probably never compare to either of them- his forte was power tumbling and floor exercising, but on bars, and even to an extent, rings, he was hopeless.

     These next three years would have to change that.

* * *

 

     The interior of the main office was the exact same, save for the plethora of new trophies that now adorned the walls. He couldn't remember who used to be the receptionist here; nevertheless, he still missed every feature of the place where he first started to train. After asking a few questions, most of which earned him dubious looks, the woman at the counter kindly led him to the back, where the other two were already waiting for him.

     To say that Sasha was surprised was the understatement of the century. That anger was still left in trace amounts on his skin, but it soon flared into something that even Michael couldn't recognize when the blonde head whipped around to discover the stranger who nearly gave him a concussion was his newest peer and future teammate. Knowing his... less than muscular physique, he could immediately predict the very next words out of Sasha's mouth.

     "A child? A fucking child?! I came here to train with who I would expect to be two competitive athletes, but someone who didn't know themselves well enough to at least calmly open a door and avoid nearly hitting another goddamn athlete?! This  _idiot_ does not deserve to be here. Why does  _he,_ of all people, participate in this team?"

     The coach currently sitting across from the three gymnasts- Jonathan's, Michael presumed- was only mildly surprised. After all of the media coverage on Sasha, this was supposed to be at least somewhat surprising to him, but he didn't even seem fazed by the outburst directed at half of the people in the room.

     As much as he didn't want to be rude- on the contrary, he highly respected the pair in front of him- Michael couldn't accept such a belittlement before he had even had a proper conversation with this man. "Do you need me to prove my worth? I may not be one of _you_ ," he said, emphasizing Jonathan and Sasha, "but if you really question their decision, I will be more than willing to accommodate any and all tests you have to give me for floor. I'll even promise to leave the gym and go back to my hometown if you deem me unfit to perform. Do we have an agreement?" finished Michael. What he'd just said was certainly a foolhardy gamble, but if he couldn't appease a gymnast, he couldn't satisfy world-class judges. Although he had a feeling that this 'judgment' would not proceed fairly, he continued on with his bet, even offering his hand out in a mock gesture to Sasha.

     As with the other two times he'd met the Olympian, Sasha continued to seethe. Standing up, he did nothing but beckon to Michael,  _strutting out the door_ and onto the floor. Gesturing him to the corner, he quickly explained the rules.

     "I'll perform a stunt for a floor exercise, and you'll analyze and copy what I do. Let's begin with something simple." With that, he went off, hurdling into a round-off, which was quickly followed by a back-handspring and a layout full twist. It was easy enough, and soon both were starting again; however, this time, he opted to take off his overcoat and shoes- he'd completely forgotten to in the light of challenging an Olympian. Shaking himself out of his clothes, his gym attire was revealed- a sleek one-piece of lycra he'd ordered that stopped at his wrists, ankles, and upper neck, concealing all of the marks found beneath the outfit. It looked a little ridiculous, but he didn't want people to see his scars. Of course, all of his lower extremities were safely hidden, but nevertheless, the thing still stayed _tight as hell,_ fitting to hit skin so that there was no way for his skin to be seen. 

     Soon, they were doing harder things, the looping routine of Sasha performing and Michael copying becoming a bore to both gymnasts rather quickly. It was after a Hypolito and then a punch triple full did the medalist sigh, looking to Michael. "Fine. You can copy, but show me your best pass. These can hardly qualify for the Olympics, anyway."

     This was a huge risk- he had a pass he was working on, but it was still experimental. Nodding, he decided  _fuck it,_ because he didn't feel like backing down when he'd come this far. He was warmed up well enough from the last run that he could at least nail a roll-out if need be.

     When he stepped up to the corned or the blue mat, he closed his eyes, trying with all of his might to summon enough energy to do this.

     "I'm waiting, newbie."

     There-  _there_ it was! That degradation, the upbraiding from other gymnasts-  _that_ was what gave him the drive, the energy to do the impossible. He ran, only able to take two steps before he went into a branny, twisting through the air and going straight into a whip back, the blurred image of his movement shifting into a higher set. Pulling out of it, he slammed his feet into the ground, launching himself into the air for one, two- three layouts with a full twist in the first and the last, his landing a resounding boom throughout the room. Sasha stood where he was before, unable to move, awe striking his face in waves. Something unrecognizable came into his eyes, but Michael quickly shook his head, assuming that he imagined what he'd seen. Jon was there, too, clapping enthusiastically- he never seemed to run out of energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as well.

     Michael guessed that there were at least a few perks to being forgotten by his old gym.

* * *

 

     The first training session had been relatively easy- he only had to do giants on bars, which wasn't that hard considering that he knew how to mark a hollow into layouts. Sasha had glanced his way a few times, but he'd only dismissed the strange looks as wonder for the stunt he'd pulled earlier. After a few hours, it was about half past noon, and Michael needed to find a place to stay for a while, apply for a job, but most importantly,  _rest._ While he did sit in a car for three quarters of a day, he drove the entire time without any breaks save for eating and filling up on gas. His white hand guards had finally been stowed away for the day, and the other two gymnasts were quickly following suit. Soon, he was back into his Vibrams and satin overcoat.

     Jonathan was the first to speak to him. "You know, I never asked you your name. You were kind of alone the whole day."

     "Oh? I'm Michael." 

     "What?" The question in his voice made him realize his pronunciation.

     "Oh- you'll have to forgive me. I'm German. I believe here they pronounce it Michael," he said, catching the 'k' in his throat, "Although I was born in the United States, my family stuck to our roots and so I was named Michael," he continued, trying to exaggerate the pronunciation. "If you want, you can call me Michael, but no nicknames like Mike, please." He held out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Horton."

     They shook. "You too. You look familiar, though- have we met?"

     Michael took a moment to carefully consider the question. He didn't know why, but he had a feeling that  _no_ was the right answer. "I can't say that we have. Perhaps you saw me at a competition? I doubt it, considering I only compete for floor exercises."  _Until now._

Sasha was now walking out of the building, pausing when Michael turned to go to his car. Without another word, he bade goodbye to Jon and quickly to Sasha before heading to his car. He was about to step in when he was called to by said gymnast.

     "Wait."

     Looking up, he saw the other one head towards him, still with that weird look in his eye. "Yes?" he asked, unsure of what Sasha wanted.

     "I..." he began, sighing and starting again, "I apologize. I didn't mean to be so harsh on you. Do you forgive me?"

     "Of course. It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Artemev. I'm sure working with you will be a pleasure in the future." Michael sighed, pulling out his phone and starting to search for places to stay. However, a thought popped into his mind before he began the search, and he caught Sasha walking towards the other the side of the gym. "Wait, I'm sorry, but do you know any good motels nearby? I need a place to stay for a few days until I can find a permanent residence." Sasha stopped, turning around to face him after the calling.

     "Oh? I'm staying with Jon. I could ask him if you would stay with us, if you like."

     "No, I'd be a burden, and two competitors living together is enough. Besides, I'm not exactly the best person to live with."

     The conversation continued for a while, and soon, they bade true farewells, and Michael was on his way to a place he found nearby.

     "Well, that could've gone worse."

* * *

      _"Plea-mmph!"_

_"Shut up!" The hands on his thighs grabbed him harder, shoving the rest of him into the bark of the tree he was forced against._

_What was happening? He was on his way home- he just wanted to sit down and rest, the walk was so very long, and then everything was black, and he was turned around, and his pants were pulled down, and then it **hurt** , it hurt so bad, he felt so weak, so disgusting, and the man hurt him so much, and-_

_"Nngh!" There was a warmth there, boiling the insides with sticky, disgusting filth as the man finally stilled._  
  
     As he pulled something out of him, the thing falling out with a faint slurping sound, the blindfold was removed, leaving him scared and open at the tree. Hand still covered his eyes.  
  
     "This is what you're going to do. You're going to count to fifty. You're going to look at this tree while I leave, and if I catch you turning around, what just happened will look like bliss compared to what'll happen to you next. Got it?"  
  
     With that, the faceless man backed away, and sure enough, the sounds of him driving away soon followed.

_'I have to get home...' thought the child, gathering his bearings through his tears._

_His legs were so weak, so tired from what had gone on, his lower back sore beyond belief, and it just hurt so much..._

_'I just want my mom. She'll make me feel better.' h_ _e continued, feeling towards the wetness to wipe it off. Once his hand rested there, he sat shock-still as he pressed into his thighs, the stinging pain and slippery skin nearly making him scream again. Reaching his hand to his face, he found a disgusting mixture of a white liquid and his blood, the congealing fluids coalescing into a disgusting pink that made him want to vomit._

_'I have to get home. I'll feel better when I get there. Mom's a doctor, she can fix me. I have to get home.' The child pulled up his pants, careful of the burning pain, slung up his backpack, and hobbled the way home, keeping himself from tears with the mantras he repeated in his head. 'I have to get home.'_

_Once home, he was given a weird look by his brother. "Why were you late?"_

_He knew what his brother would say. He'd never believe him. His brother was mean. He didn't like his brother. "I was-I was looking at the trees on the way home. I'm here now."_

_He managed to clean everything off, but the blood and the white stuff would never go away. In the bath, the water quickly turned red; however, this was from the boy's own hand. 'Nasty... you're so dirty. Mom doesn't like dirty things. Mom likes clean things. Mom doesn't like you. Mom doesn't want you anymore.'_  
  
     The voices were there, and nobody else could hear him, and they were getting louder and louder, and they were scaring him, and he didn't like them, and-  
  
     'Mom doesn't want you. You're dirty. You're disgusting. Filthy. Worthless. You're so nasty. She doesn't love you. You don't mean anything to her.'

_He started to scrub harder._

_'What are you doing? That won't help you. You're not going to be clean. You're always going to be dirty. You can't even clean yourself. What are you even trying for? It's not like she'll suddenly want you again.'_

_Harder and faster he went, the rough parts of the sponge cutting into his skin, his nails catching and ripping bits away._

_'You can't be clean. Do you know how worthless you are?'_

_He pushed it into the bared flesh, crying as the unformed skin irritated and hurt him._

_'You're disgusting.'_

_The world faded to black._

* * *

 

     Waking up with a start, Michael knew he had to go out for a walk, a drive, a  _something._ He knew how to deal with these flashbacks, but when they hit, they hit  _hard._ The place had made an exception for him being underage, since he was competing in the Olympics and all, and he had free reign to leave any time before morning. Grabbing his wallet, keys, phone, and donning his overcoat, he began to make the drive to a park he remembered visiting as a child. Remembering it as near the gym, he decided to hang out there until it was time to start today's practice. He sat down where he used to and curled his knees to his chest. In a hurry, he'd slipped on the Vibrams again, and the overcoat served as a sort of blanket to help cover his thinly-adorned feet. He was about to doze off as the sun rose when a familiar voice snapped him out of his slumber.

     "What are you doing here?"


	2. Red Sunrises, White Complexions, Blue Skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I haven't posted in forever because I was busy with some stuff. Looking back over the first chapter, though, it was reALLY stereotypical with the end part. I'm just gonna go ahead and rewrite that. 
> 
> Sorry if everyone's OOC, but it's kinda hard when the character's an independent being in real life and not a TV show whoops
> 
> Have a complaint? Comment! I'd really appreciate critique. It makes me a better writer. Questions are also appreciated. Thanks!

     Standing behind him was none other than Artemev, a surefire confusion spreading across his facial features.

     When Michael didn't immediately respond, he asked again, with a softer, "What're you doing up this early?"

     Snapping out of his stupor, Michael replied, silver eyes dimming, "It's.. nothing. I just happened to wake up this early. Besides... I could, uh, ask the same. What about you?" he finished, keeping his guard up.

     "I often get up this early to train. I was just about ready to begin, but it seems they aren't open yet. I don't have any idea where Jon is, though."

     Something in his eyes changed, setting off signals in the back of Michael's mind. "Well, are you going to go back to his house? You  _did_ say that you were staying with him, right?"

     "I'm not willing to make the drive back only to come again. What about you? I at least hope you didn't sleep in your car..."

     "No, but even if I did, you needn't worry. Thanks for asking, though." 

     A pregnant pause filled the air, the weight of worlds crashing down between the two gymnasts. Sighing, Michael decided to break the ice.

     "Do you want to sit down? It's not like there's anything holding you back, is there?"

     Sasha was taken aback, the offer completely unexpected. He made a quick recovery, and he silently nodded his head and sat Zen-style next to Michael, feet finding a way into his own thighs. "Thanks. I didn't really think to ask."

     Michael giggled a bit at that. "You didn't think to? It wasn't like you had anything else to think about."

     The other gymnast didn't respond immediately, instead only looking out towards the rising sun.

     "I used to love this place. I remember the days after practice where I would come and watch the stars rise from the horizon. Being here again really brings back my childhood."

     Sasha looked toward him, eyes widening ever-so-slightly. "What? Didn't you tell Jonathan that you never went here before?"

     "I dunno. I had this feeling that if I told him the truth, something would happen that I was going to regret. Believe me, I like you both a lot- from your past performances to meeting you two in person. I remember him practicing when I was younger, and I used to aspire to be like him. Sort of, anyway."

     "I don't think you liked meeting me in person- we both saw what happened yesterday."

     "So what if we got off on the wrong foot? You both are still highly respectable men who aren't enamored with themselves because they won medals at the Olympics. I look for that kind of sense of self in people."

     Artemev laughed as well, a soft, tinkling sound that rang pleasantly against Michael's ears. "Well, if that isn't a compliment, I wouldn't know what is."

     "Oh, shut up. You know it was a good one!" chuckled the teen in response.

     "Well, anyway, I don't know what to say about dealing with Jon. He's a great guy, believe me. Don't tell me you've developed some kind of crush on him or something?" asked the elder.

     Michael thought he sensed a deeper meaning behind those words. "Not my type. Do  _you_ have any 'interests?'"

     "How callous of you. I do, but you don't know them."

      _Is that good or bad?_ "Callous? You asked me the same question. Anyway, want to get breakfast? There's no point in practicing without even eating first."

     "Sure. My car or yours?"

     "Mine."

* * *

     Breakfast went by uneventfully, the Wendy's they'd swung by passing with more small talk.  
  
     "I shouldn't be eating this. It's bad for my diet," commented Michael as he finished his salad.  
  
     "It's a salad. It can't be that bad, can it?" the other asked, finishing his own.  
  
     "Yeah, but fast food from any place- no matter what you get- is always bad for you. Don't tell me you manage your figure without a diet."  
  
     Sasha gazed ahead through the early morning traffic as they headed back to the gym, the sunset slowly starting to fade into brighter hues of blue.

* * *

     They arrived at the gym at about eight, walking inside to see Jon doing warm-ups for their practices for the day. Putting his overcoat and shoes away, he heard a laugh from Sasha, who looked at him a bit sheepishly. "What? I'm sorry, but you do realize you look ridiculous, right? The shoes and the overcoat are... eccentric, if anything. Have you worn that to school?"  
  
     "Yep, don't give a fuck and it's gonna stay that way," laughs the other.

* * *

     It was hard to tell exactly how Jon felt about Michael.  
  
     Michael didn't go out of his way to speak with him, and neither did the other. He often found Jon giving him looks that were... unidentifiable? Michael wasn't the best at reading emotions, but he just couldn't figure out for the  _life_ of him what swirled in his eyes. Sometimes he didn't even notice Michael looking back, but when he did, he respected him enough to look away.  
  
     He still kind of regretted his decision- okay, so  _maybe_ he'd made friends with his childhood idol, but things were somehow tense between him and Jon now. Was he still trying to figure out if he knew Michael or not? Had he seen through his lie? Had  _Sasha_ told him about the truth? He hoped not. That'd turn the relationship they'd been building to shit  _real_ quick.

 

     After practice that day, their coach suggested they all go out and do something together as a team. Something about trust building? It didn't make sense, seeing as how they weren't cheerleaders, and gymnastics was an independent sport. After trying to decline-  _"Sorry, coach, but I'm still looking for a job and a place to stay. Could I be-"_ was all he got out of his mouth before he was being shushed by him and pretty much forced into Jon's SUV, the dark silver glinting a bit out in the Texas heat.

  
     If things between him and Jon stayed the same way the whole time, the rest of his day was going to be hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, but I'm just getting back into writing. The next one will be longer, I swear ;-;

**Author's Note:**

> I feel so dirty because Jonathan Horton is my old coach fml


End file.
